The moon cast its light through the open window and onto her wrists, bound by maroon hemp rope. She was on all fours. Her legs were spread wide. Her naked back was glistening with post-sex sweat. I dragged two fingers down both sides of her spine, leaving a wake of tingling. She was still blindfolded and panting. I commanded her to tell me everything she liked. She couldn’t speak and I realized she was still in a daze. I knelt down in front of her placed my lips on hers. We were the most connected then. Just afterwards.
Everyone likes to be in control of their own lives and their selves but we never really are. We construct our lives with intention and routine. We lay down foundations in our youth and build a life on top of that. A great house. A great marriage. A superb career. Kids. Cars. Social lives. Memberships, family. We travel, but we always come back. We always come home. We know who is the receptor of our love. We know who to give our love to. We are ever so specific in which route we take.
The dream was hazy. I was sitting at a bar and she was there but she wasn’t with me. I was with someone else. Or something else. I was writing. I’m always writing. I was drinking another Boulevardier. I was sitting there writing and drinking, trying not to stand out. But you always stand out at a bar on a Saturday night when you’re alone. And when you’re writing. Nowadays it’s more normal to see someone alone peering into the black rectangle. No one writes anymore. Except when they do write. They write on their laptops. No one writes in a notebook anymore. Especially at a bar.
She sat there seductively. Her legs were crossed and as she talked to a guy she crossed her arms as well. She was easy to read on the outside. Harder on the inside. Her hair was sandy blonde but had streaks of turquoise and faded hot pink. It coiled down from her head and fell just over her bare shoulders. She glanced at me it was as if she was emitting signals. Either it was that or she though it strange to see someone writing at the bar. The man was hitting on her.
In real life we met on Tinder. She was just outside of Chicago visiting her family. I had set my radius search too far from Logan Square and we matched. My bio always said the same thing: Dominant in the sheets and progressive in the streets. It was a cute line and it filtered out a shitload of vanilla people in the windy metropolis.
In the dream we disappeared into a hotel room. The people from the bar were gone. The neon bar lights melted into cheap hotel room paintings- a copycat of a Miró and a photograph of the Bundestag in Berlin. The old and the new. The glass dome emerging from a stone, gothic foundation. She knelt on the oak floor. She placed her palms on the tops of her thighs and looked forward, straight at the top of the dresser. I walked over to her and watched her. She sat with her back was erect. Her lips were closed. She waited patiently. “Put your hands behind your back,” I told her. She hesitated. A moment later, she obliged. I was pleased. “What do you like to be called?” I asked her. She didn’t respond. “It’s okay,” I said. “This is a very important part of it. The talking about preferences and desires part. We must do it before we proceed.”
We exchanged a handful of messages before we got to the juicy stuff. At first she took days to respond. Once we crossed the line from formalities to more explicit desires she responded more quickly. I wanted to know all of her kinks. We were playful and flirtatious. But we were also honest. “I have a history of trauma,” she told me. “But later in life I had a partner with whom I was able to explore the trauma. To work through it. We played with power. It was really difficult but extremely cathartic.” I told her all about how I had gotten into kink, how there was shame with my first few girlfriends who were extremely vanilla. And how when I first found someone
like minded and submissive, it was one of the most liberating experiences I’ve ever felt. She liked to hear me describe situations.
“Spread your legs,” I told her. She obeyed. I had not touched her yet. I had come close. I placed my mouth next to her ear as I whispered instructions. I felt electricity rising from her skin. She wore black, tight yoga pants and a black spaghetti strapped halter top. The straps of her bra on her shoulders caught my eye. Her breasts weren’t large but as she sat straight, they curved out from her chest. I told her to turn so she faced the bottom of the bed. She did. I walked around in front of her and sat on the edge of the bed. She was kneeling in front of me. She kept her arms behind her back. Her legs weren’t very far apart. “Good. But spread your legs more,” I told her.
We discovered that we shared the same kinks. She was coy and playful. Always trying to push me further. Always trying to taunt me and tease me. It was always about control. She wanted to set me off, to push my carnal instincts so they would come out. So the wild inside me would suddenly burst forward. She wanted me to overpower her. She told me things about her desires that she knew would drive me crazy. The kinks were many and varied. She liked pain and submission. She liked to be flogged.
She told me about a time when she came to be the center of a master flogger’s attention. It was at a kink convention. She had never been flogged before. But she was interested. She pushed the flogger’s limits. He had never met someone who could take it like she could. She loved the power she had over him. She knew that he became weaker the more he couldn’t reach her limit. He melted in her presence. She loved that. A group of women gathered around them. They were all jealous of how much attention he was giving her, how much control…